One Last Miracle
by the-vampire-act
Summary: "One last miracle," John sighed,"that's all I asked of you, you poor bastard. After everything that you dragged me into, one favor doesn't seem like too much to ask for, does it?" John finds out he isn't the only one who still believes in Sherlock Holmes.


**A/N: Takes place during season 2 finale, The Reichenbach Fall. Also, if you haven't already, check out the 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' Campaign. This story may be continued if wanted. **

**One Last Miracle**

Sherlock.

Sherlock? Sherlock….Sherlock!

What in god's name was that bloody moron doing? Surely he wasn't going to jump. No, of course not. The man was a genius, after all. The tabloids had been lying. Moriarty was alive. Sherlock wasn't a fake.

"Sherlock, no."

Maybe he could be wrong. Maybe he wasn't a genius after all. He could see it now: headlines boldly exploring the propaganda that Sherlock Holmes, the great detective of 221b Baker Street, was a complete fake. Richard Brook was the fake! Sherlock knew that, didn't he? Moriarty was playing games with everyone's heads, Sherlock had said it himself.

"They were right, John."

"What are you saying?" But he knew exactly what he was saying. He knew it all too well. Before he could even blink, however, Sherlock was throwing down his mobile phone and bracing himself for impact.

It was all so wrong. This couldn't b real, it couldn't! But sure enough, there he went. The mad man, the genius detective, the loyal comrade, and the best friend John Watson had ever had was dead. Without hesitation he ran over to him, falling and tripping on the way. Crowds of people surrounded his friend as the hospital employees worked to transport him inside the building. But he knew it was too late.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

~* Sherlock *~

Two months later, John Watson found himself staring at a blank computer screen in the middle of 221b Baker Street. It had been too long since he last updated his blog. It felt wrong to, in a sense. Sherlock was gone. The great adventures of Holmes and Watson had gone had gone with that. Comments and threads had been posted defacing the name of the deceased man, calling him things like 'liar', 'an outrage', and 'just another kid desperate for attention'. What hurt the most about the whole ordeal was the fact that no one felt sorry. No one defended the poor bastard, not even his own blood. Then again, why would he? Mycroft was the whole reason why Moriarty was able to penetrate through his brother, the whole reason why he was dead. Mycroft had tried talking to John several times, but each time he had declined. No more mysterious car rides, no more secretive talks with people who actually gave a damn about Sherlock Holmes- or, so he thought, anyways.

"One last miracle," John sighed, his audience being no one in particular. He then stood and opened a new bottle of alcohol. "That's all I asked of you, you poor bastard. After everything that you dragged me into, one favor doesn't seem like too much to ask for, does it?" John just shook his head before sitting back down, unsure of what he was suspecting to happen. Finally, he sat down his drink and put his hands on the keyboard. He tried typing several things, things like 'Sherlock', and 'Holmes', and even 'Truth.' It wasn't working, though. Every time he hit the backspace button. It was no use. Sherlock was gone. Typing his name on a damned website would never change that.

"Knock, knock," someone called from the door.

For a split second, he expected it to turn around and see Sherlock standing there, ready to shoot smiley faces on the wall, scream about how bored he was, or even throw off all his clothes, wrap every sheet he could find around himself- though one, no, half of one would have sufficed, really- and tell everyone to shut up and leave so he could go to his 'mind palace'. John turned around. Damn. No such luck.

Lestrade helped himself to the seat next to John. Wordlessly, the host poured another glass of alcohol and passed it on his unexpected guest. "Doesn't feel real, does it?" the DI sighed between sips. "Feels like just yesterday he was solving crimes and driving us all insane."

"He wasn't insane," John muttered, "just bloody brilliant." He went to take another sip, but Lestrade confiscated the glass.

"I know John, I know." Something about the way the other man had uttered those words made John look up. Their eyes locked for a moment, revealing to him that Lestrade was here for something a bit more serious than a reunion. "This may be hard for you to believe, John, but I do believe in Sherlock Holmes. I'm well aware that this-this Richard Brook is the real madman here."

"But you're not authorized to prove it," John said, leaning back in his chair. "That's where I come in."

"In a way, yes. Investigating on your own's useless. Moriarty's dead. Sherlock's…..dead. There's nothing left to investigate after that," Lestrade replied gravely.

"What can I do, then?" John frowned.

"You can leave 221b Baker Street. Get a girlfriend, a life. Move on, John, don't let Moriarty win. He wants everyone associated with Holmes to suffer. He wants you to avenge your friend's killer. There's no one to revenge, though, John." Lestrade stopped when he saw John's eyes glance toward his computer. "Start your blog again. Stay in touch with us in the department when you can. You're clever- if you weren't, Sherlock wouldn't have taken to you so easily." Lestrade watched John, noting that he hadn't blinked or anything. Maybe he had come too early. Maybe he shouldn't have come at all-

"No," John finally replied. "This blog's useless now. No one gives a damn about the life of John Watson. It's Sherlock Holmes they wanted. Moving on? No. It's not what Sherlock would have wanted, not yet, anyways."

"Sherlock _would _have wanted this-"

"Yes, he would have," John glared. "I'm staying here, Lestrade. Two years- that's it. Two years, and then I will accept everything that everyone else believes. Sherlock will be a dead liar, a bad memory. I'll leave London, and I'll start over again." John shut the lid to his laptop. He just couldn't accept Sherlock as a dead man. He was too clever, too cunning. Even in death. There had to be clues somewhere. Sherlock loved mysteries. He'd work on clearing the man's name in private, and when he finally returned to the public, headlines would be in an uproar. Things like 'Sherlock Alive', 'Dead Man Walking', and 'A Good Man Lives' would fill up the newspapers, and Sherlock would be back, solving crimes and driving them all mad again.

"Fine," Lestrade nodded. He stood up and pointed to John as he said, "Two years, no more, no less, and then I will be back and personally drag you out of London myself."

"I'll be looking forward to it," John agreed. He watched as Lestrade walked toward the door. Before he reached it, however, he said, "I believe in Sherlock Holmes, John. Don't forget that."

"I won't, trust me, detective," John nodded.

"Good." He continued walking and pulled the door open. Before he could walk out, however, a smile grew on his face. As he left, he shouted, "And I would call to Mycroft, if I were." Before John could respond, the door was slammed shut behind him.

John stopped, as if to consider the man's words. Finally, he too smiled and reached for his phone. He then dialed the familiar number and waited for the man to answer.

_"I told you to call me sooner, John." _

"Hello, Sherlock."


End file.
